


what is that song you sing for the dead?

by if_i_be_waspish



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Amy Pond-ish, F/M, Ice cream?, Manhattan, Rory Williams-ish, bit of shagging, the doctor reads dating textbooks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 03:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14633063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/if_i_be_waspish/pseuds/if_i_be_waspish
Summary: Manhattan again. Except happy this time. Well. Mostly.-The Doctor sighs in exasperation, “Yes, River, a date. You know, an outing upon which two people who are romantically involved or else hoping to become so embark in an effort to grow closer or spend more time together or, I think, for the sake of general merriment in the vicinity of one another with an ultimate goal of obtaining a deeper sense of closeness, or maintaining that sense should it already exist.”





	what is that song you sing for the dead?

**Author's Note:**

> not sure how or why this happened, but here it is.
> 
> T-plus, if I'm being honest.

River tries to peek over the Doctor’s shoulder at the console, “Where are we going?”

The Doctor finishes typing with a flourish and then spins on his heels, purposefully blocking River’s view as the TARDIS starts her journey. “I think at some point in your augmented lifespan you’ve been ill-informed of the definition of _surprise_ , Doctor Song.”

River crosses her arms over her chest and lets out a sigh, “No, I just don’t happen to _like them_ very much.” She doesn’t tell him _why_. She doesn’t tell him that before he came into her life, surprises were things to dread; surprises were more like literal monsters hiding under her bed before he came along—they always _hurt her_ before him. They still sometimes do, even when they’re from him, but before he came along she’d never even _known_ a surprise didn’t have to end in tears or bloodshed, either hers or someone else’s.

The Doctor taught her about _good_ surprises, the kind that can make you smile, make you laugh, make you feel joy. But she’s still undoing a lifetime of damage, and these good things don’t come easy to her, they’re not second nature, but the Doctor is a good teacher, and River’s always been a fast learner.

He steps into her personal space and bops her lightly on the nose, “Too bad.” He smiles as she wrinkles her nose and rolls her eyes.

The TARDIS lands and the door pops open and they step into the light, the planet around them swirling into view. _Earth_. The air here is thick and heavy and it slides directly into River’s pores, then slips through her hair, working its way through each one of her curly strands. She can _feel_ her hair begin to grow and her hand flies up to grasp at it.

“Yeah,” The Doctor says, looking at her head as he shuts the door of the TARDIS behind them, “Sorry about that.” He gestures to her hair, still taking on a life of its own. “It’s the twenty seventh century and they still treat this planet like rubbish, like it’ll be around forever, which you and I both know _it won’t_.” The Doctor lifts a few strands of her hair, now thick with the moisture of the air, “Blimey, is it ever going to stop?”

River swats his hand away as she turns to survey their surroundings. She takes in the tall buildings, the holographic trees in the middle of the city, the hurried throngs of people all dressed in black as they walk past. It looks like a new city, but she’d recognize it anywhere even without the distinctive yellow cabs moving up and down the congested streets like very slow ants or worker bees serving some unknown queen. She thought she’d never see it again—she hadn’t been here since… Well. Since. She feels her hearts grow suddenly heavy with the weight of memory, and though the air here is thick, she knows it’s the memory that makes it hard for her to breathe.

She shakes her head, as though that simple action can scrape the cobwebs back over the memory, cast it back to the recesses of her mind where she’s kept it for years and years where it can still hurt her, just not all the time, “Earth?” _Manhattan_? She can’t keep her true question out of her eyes, and she vaguely wonders if this time the Doctor is giving her a good surprise or a painful one; so far it hurts, and they’ve only just stepped out of the TARDIS.

The Doctor sees her question, of course, but he ignores it. “Earth.” He confirms, “We can’t always go to Frost Fairs and the edge of the Universe, you know. A bit of normalcy _is_ sometimes in order. You _are_ part human, after all.” He grins at her, his eyes flickering up, “Not your _hair,_ mind.”

She glares at him, “You do know I have _this_ , don’t you?” She waves her vortex manipulator around, laughing when he rolls his eyes. “I don’t need _you_ to time travel, you know.”

“Yes, yes,” the Doctor sighs, tapping his foot impatiently, “You’re missing the point, River.” He begins to walk, and she hurries a bit to catch up and then steps in time with him, dodging angry New Yorkers walking head down without a smile, the stress coming off of them in palpable waves.

River casts a sideways glance at him as they walk, “Oh? And what, sweetie, _is_ the point, exactly?”

“The _point_ ,” The Doctor says, guiding her around a slotted grate in the middle of the sidewalk from which steam rises, “River Song, is that _this_ ,” He says the words with a dramatic flourish, “Is a _date_.”

River feels a slight flutter in her stomach at the word, and her step nearly falters in her shock. It’s not a word he’s used before, despite how many years they’ve spent traveling the universe together, despite how many pet names she’s called him, despite how many times he’s called her _his bad girl_.

It’s always been other words he uses to describe their outings: _travels, adventures, expeditions, missions, appointments_ (to his credit, he’d only used that particular one _once_ , after she refused to shag him during or after said _appointment_ ) _._ And she’s loved them all (well, except the whole appointment thing: _what_ _do you think I_ am _?_ ), wouldn’t change any of them for a thing, because she lives for the days when she sees him, no matter _what_ they’re called; but a _date_? It’s a new one on her.

No matter how many rooms in the TARDIS they’d christened after an adventure, she’s never actually _been_ on a date with the Doctor. At least not one that was called as such. _By him,_ no less.

Quelling the excited roil in her stomach, she tries to keep her voice neutral, “A date?”

The Doctor sighs in exasperation, “Yes, River, a _date_. You know, an outing upon which two people who are romantically involved or else hoping to become so embark in an effort to grow closer or spend more time together or, I think, for the sake of general merriment in the vicinity of one another with an ultimate goal of obtaining a deeper sense of closeness, or maintaining that sense should it already exist.” He pauses mid-stride to peer up and down the length of the crowded street, scratching his cheek in confusion, “At least that’s what all the books on dating I’ve read in preparation for today say.” He holds his sonic screwdriver up slightly above his head and fiddles with it a bit before he smiles, then pulls her gently by her wrist in the direction it told him to go.

“Oh.” It’s all she can say, the weight of the moment not lost on her. She’s going on a _date_ with the Doctor. A date that he’s apparently planned, and a date for which apparently he’s actually _studied_ dating as a whole in preparation; if it weren’t _him_ it would probably be the least romantic thing she’d ever heard. But it _is_ him, and instead, she thinks it might just be the most. She feels a tightening in her chest as she imagines him poring over _Dating for Dummies_ and any other texts he could get his hands on, and the flutter in her stomach returns, weaves its way up to her hearts and takes hold.

Oh, if only River’s former self could see her now. She’d surely feel the sting of her own palm against her own cheek— _sentimental idiot_. Her fingers clench and unclench at her side into a fist, itching, and it lets her know that her riotous younger self is still in there, somewhere, loathing every minute of this emotional reaction her current self is having. But she’s so far away from that now, so far away from who she used to be before she knew good things existed, before she knew that she deserved them, before she knew what love felt like from the inside; her younger self might rage and make fists, but _this her_ is loved and is too much in love with the man standing in front of her to feel anything but awe, and she stopped apologizing for _that_ a long time ago now.

“And where are we going on this supposed date?” Her voice is quiet, muffled by the thoughts running through her head.

The Doctor pauses for a moment to smile at her, “Well. I was going to take you to a sock hop and then swing the TARDIS by a drive-in, after which we’d pop by the local soda fountain,” At her look, he shrugs, “My books are a _bit_ out of date, I think.” He eyes her up and down, “But I somehow didn’t think that you and a whole day in 1950s America would be compatible.”

River smirks, “Not unless you want the second wave to get a little head start, sweetie.”

He tugs on her wrist, leading her down to the end of the block, “Right,” He pauses, gesturing at the shop they’ve stopped in front of, “So.” He waves his hand behind him, “Last ice cream bar.” He furrows his brow, “Don’t know they’re the last, ‘course, but they are. And the best.”

River looks at the building behind him, it’s painted a gaudy bubblegum pink, the only shop with any color on the entire block; the other buildings are stark, either gray or black as they jut up aggressively from the sidewalk. The pink one stands out, looking oddly happy despite the fact that paint is peeling from the bricks, giving way to the faded dirty black underneath. The sign is a bright teal, neon glowing even in the haze of the Manhattan afternoon: _Lickity Split_.

River snorts, “Clever.”

The Doctor splays his hands out in front of him, looking at her expectantly, “This is your date, River.”

She quirks her eyebrow at him, looking at the ice cream cones painted on the windows and then back at him, “Really? Unless they do a Whisky float here, sweetie, I rather think it’s yours.” His mouth drops open and color suffuses his cheeks; taking pity on him, she smiles, “I’m looking quite forward to it, anyway.”

He grins and claps his hands together, “Right, okay. _Date time_.” His eyes tick up to the right, like he’s trying to remember something, then he pulls the door open for her, holding it so she can walk through as he looks particularly proud of himself. “Page thirty-seven, _act like a gentleman_.” He mutters to himself as she passes, and he follows her through the door.

River bites back a laugh and a snarky comment as they take their place in the relatively short queue, the smell of waffle cones and pure sugar overwhelming her olfactory system. As they weave through the little barriers meant to keep everyone in order, River looks at the walls which are painted a darker shade of pink, still bright. She notices a picture of a strange concoction, doughnuts wrapped around ice cream with sprinkles on top, a weird sort of sandwich that looks impossible to eat. There is text printed next to the picture in the same bright teal of the neon sign outside: _Lick me till ice cream_.

River smirks at the innuendo, then lowers her voice in the exact way she knows the Doctor loves, “Oh,” she draws the word out and when he turns to look at her, she grins at him wickedly then looks pointedly at the wall, “Maybe this date _is_ for me, after all.”

The Doctor follows her gaze and then coughs a bit, that bright red color creeping up his neck again and onto his face until even his ears burn bright. Centuries together and she’ll never get enough of seeing her husband blush; how she loves that she can still _make_ him, even after all the things they’ve done together. She’s one of the only ones who can, now, and it’s so endearing.

He tugs at his bowtie, “That wasn’t in my books,” He lets his gaze drift down her body, no longer shy despite his blushing about the hunger he feels for her, “But I’m happy to pen a lengthy appendix.” He raises his eyebrows at her suggestively as the queue moves forward.

River throws her head back and laughs, the sound echoing through the tiny ice cream shop, “And I’m _very_ happy to let you, sweetie.”

The ice cream is self-serve, as most things are in twenty seventh century America, and by the time they’re at the front of the line, River has already decided on her flavor. The Doctor, however, hems and haws, before finally deciding on a combination of three flavors which he scoops into a cup with grandeur. When River sees the toppings bar overflowing with various things one may or may not put on one’s ice cream, she sighs heartily and slides into an open booth, in the perfect position to watch the Doctor as he finishes scooping the last flavor of ice cream into his cup.

When he sees the toppings bar, he stalls for a second, and his eyes light up as he takes in the array of choices available to him. He makes his way to the toppings, taking a walk up and down the bar, pausing to investigate certain items up close before looping back to the beginning, excitedly taking topping after topping and cramming each of them into his bowl.

River should find him absurd, she knows. And he is. He really, _really_ is. But as she watches him, she’s overcome by the fact that someone who’s seen and done the things that he has can act so carefree and childlike, can be so filled with joy over something as small and simple as an ice cream toppings bar—it means there’s hope for someone like her, someone programmed to hurt and kill from birth, and she never gets tired of being reminded of that hope, no matter how far she’s come from who she was when she had none. There is joy for even her; she knows that now, because of him.

By the time he waves one of his ridiculous limbs her way, shouting across the parlor, “River! River! They have _biscuits_ you can put _on your ice cream!_ ” darting his eyes back to the toppings bar and doing a quick tally, “ _Twelve_ different kinds!” She’s wearing a full-blown smile and she can’t even begin to hate herself for it.

River spent a long time talking herself out of _genuine_ happiness; a long time pretending it was something she didn’t deserve, something she wouldn’t have. The first time she felt it creep through her body, she froze, so unaware of what was happening to her, of what she was feeling. When she realized what it was, when she realized that she was feeling _happy_ , she tried desperately to convince herself that she was mistaken, that it was anything else. She doesn’t do that anymore, she refuses to, especially with him. Enough had been taken from her— _enough_.

The Doctor situates himself in the booth across from her, sliding noisily over the pastel pink pleather and River looks at his ice cream bowl with disbelief at the myriad of different toppings, all piled to the brim of his bowl so that it’s nearly overflowing. The Doctor takes a paper napkin from the holder at the edge of the table, tucks it into the collar of his shirt so it covers his bowtie, and grabs his spoon before glancing at her with a grin. Upon observing her bowl, his grin fades and is replaced with a look of shock bordering on indignation.

There in her bowl, untouched and slightly melty, sits her plain ice cream—a scoop and a half of Maple Pecan, the color rich and buttery.

The Doctor peers at her, the same disbelief she’d had at his bowl playing across his features, “That’s _boring_.” He huffs.

“Oh?” River asks, scooping a bit of her ice cream onto her spoon. She doesn’t look away from him and his eyes widen as her tongue darts out, swiping a bit of the ice cream from the heavy plastic pink spoon. “Is it?” She asks innocently, as she slides the spoon slowly into her mouth. She watches him swallow hard, his spoon frozen midway between his ice cream and his mouth. River closes her eyes as the maple pecan flavors burst across her tongue, and she lets out a little hum of pleasure as she slides the spoon back out of her mouth. “Doesn’t _taste_ boring.” She opens her eyes, pleased to find him still staring at her, “Tastes delicious.”

The Doctor clears his throat, dropping his spoon back into his ice cream bowl. “I’ll be the judge of that,” He says, standing up and bending so that he is leaning all the way across the table. He slips his hand into her hair at the back of her head and presses his lips against hers, then gently slips his tongue into her mouth, licking at her tongue.

After a moment, he pulls back and sits back down on his side of the booth; he taps his fingers against the table, “ _Delicious_.” He picks his spoon up from his ice cream, “But that’s more you than the ice cream, I imagine.” The Doctor runs his tongue across his lips, “Maple Pecan, too sweet.”

She stares at him incredulously, looking at his ice cream bowl piled high with toppings—gummies, biscuits, sprinkles, chocolate sauce. It’s a sugary mess, and she can’t help but laugh. “ _Mine_ is _too sweet_?” She scoffs.

Shrugging, the Doctor takes a bite of his ice cream, bits of crumbled biscuit, chocolate sauce, caramel all sliding past his lips, “Well – _yeah_.” He closes his eyes in delight, “Want a taste?”

River smirks, “Maybe later.”

The Doctor grins, skimming his spoon along the top of his bowl, making sure he gets all three flavors and as many toppings as possible in one spoonful. He makes his way through nearly all of his ice cream, until he finally pushes it away when it’s become a soupy mess. He lets out a mournful sigh, sad that he cannot possibly finish it all. River chuckles a bit at his forlorn expression, then smiles.

The Doctor rips his napkin from his collar then stands from the booth, reaching for River’s hand. When she takes it and slides out of the booth, he interlaces his fingers with hers, leading her to the door. He pulls it open and guides her through it with his palm resting against the small of her back, the wet heat of the New York summer hitting them full blast as they step onto the jagged sidewalk.

They pause at a crosswalk outside the ice cream parlor, right next to an alley; as they wait for the crossing signal, she squeezes his hand and then turns to regard him with a smile, “This is the sweetest date I’ve ever been on, honey, thank you.”

He looks crestfallen for just a moment, “You’ve been on… other dates?”

River rolls her eyes, “Of _course_ I’ve been on other dates, you idiot,” Glancing quickly over her shoulder, she snatches him by his bowtie and drags him back into the alley behind them. Stopping when they’re halfway down, she spins him around so his back is pressed up against the bright pink bricks of the side of the ice cream parlor. She brings her hand up and pats his cheek affectionately, “Never with a Time Lord, though,” She smirks, “You’re my first, sweetie.”

The Doctor smiles, adjusting the lapels of his tweed jacket, “I’d better be.”

“Yes,” She agrees, leaning in close to his face, “You’d better be.” She runs her tongue along his bottom lip and then eases it gently inside his mouth when he opens it. She kisses him deeply, enjoying the way he tastes of three different flavors of ice cream, biscuits and gummies, chocolate sauce and something else she’d never had before him: _tenderness_.

River moves her hand down to cup him through his trousers; finding him growing hard beneath her palm, she smiles against his mouth and squeezes him.

“ _River_ ,” He chokes, as he pulls back to look at her; he surveys the alley, finding it empty, then turns his wide-eyed gaze back to her.

“Oh, stop looking so shocked,” She traces her finger lightly along his length then unbuttons his trousers, slipping her hand inside, “This will hardly be the first alleyway we’ve shagged in.”

The Doctor grabs her wrist and stills her movements; spinning her so her back is against the wall, he watches as her nostrils flare a bit and her eyes darken—she so loves when he takes charge. “No,” his breath is hot against her ear, “And it’ll hardly be our last.”

He brushes his lips against hers softly, then skims his hand up her leg and under her dress; finding her bare and wet, he smirks against her mouth then shifts his head to her ear, “Oh, you bad, bad girl.”

He can hear the smirk in her voice, coupled with the need, “Only for you right now, sweetie.” She drops her voice on the last word as she thrusts herself into his waiting hand.

“Patience,” He murmurs, running a finger slowly against her.

She tangles her hand into the hair at the base of his neck and tugs his head back; she bites his neck, her teeth digging into his flesh as she works at his trousers, “Never had the time.” She licks at his throat as she pulls him out and wraps her hand around him.

The Doctor gasps, “I’ve got plenty of it.” He slides his finger into her slowly, as though he really does have all the time in the world, enjoying her sharp intake of breath as he buries his finger. She tries to move herself on his finger, whimpering a little, but he stops her with a firm grip on her hip. His tongue traces the shell of her ear, “But luckily for you, my bad girl, I don’t want to wait another second to have you.”

Soon, he’s got her pressed face first against the charmingly pink wall with one hand wrapped around her front as he steadies himself against the wall with the other. He whispers filth raggedly into her ear as he moves against her roughly, just the way she’s always loved, and she’s crying out so loudly and wantonly that he wonders how the New Yorkers passing by the alley don’t hear and come to investigate. He expects to be interrupted by a good Samaritan any moment, should there be any left in New York, but feeling River pulse around him, he’s too far gone to care, and when she cries out so loudly that it echoes off the buildings around them, he follows her, her name spilling from his lips. He collapses against her, pinning her effectively to the wall with the weight of his seemingly boneless body.

She is breathing heavily, her body still trembling beneath him as he runs his arms tenderly up and down her biceps. He lifts her hair from her neck and presses a gentle kiss there, his tongue darting out to taste her—salt and _River_ , sweeter than any ice cream on this planet or any other—and he smiles against her skin.

River sighs contentedly, “Sweetie?” She tilts her head to the side, allowing him better access to the side of her neck—he nips at her and she laughs, “A little help?”

Realizing he is still pressed against her, he lifts his weight off of her with a soft chuckle. “Right. Sorry.” He tucks himself back in his trousers.

When she turns around, her skin is flushed and she’s wearing a sated smirk and glow he’ll never quite get used to having put on her face. The Doctor reaches up and brushes his thumb over her cheek, swiping at a chip of pink paint the wall had left on her skin.

Holding his thumb out to her so she can inspect the paint, he grins, “Might be the most _colorful_ wall we’ve shagged against.”

River laughs, a low and throaty sound that stirs arousal in him despite their recent activity, “Oh, honey,” She reaches up and pats his cheek affectionately, “Not even close.”

It’s nearly sunset now and they’re stumbling out of the alley laughing as they try to set their clothing to rights. The doctor grins, pulling her against his side, slipping an arm around her waist as he tugs her close to him as they catch the crosswalk and then descend the steps to the subway station.

It’s too hot for this type of embrace, but she can’t seem to extricate herself—she’s always loved him like this best: sated, happy, affectionate, _hers_.

“Is _that_ what you do on dates, River Song?” His tone is light, but she knows him well enough to hear the underlying jealousy; it is _ridiculous_ , but she’s always found it endearing on him, in spite of herself.

“It’s what I do on dates with _you_.” She says around a smirk. He doesn’t need to know about the alleyways of her past; they hardly matter now, anyway. He’s the only one she wants to have press her against walls in alleys these days, his is the only name that falls from her lips in ecstasy now.

The train comes, and they step on, shuffling into the crowded car. He tucks his head into her and whispers in her ear, “In that case, we’ll have to have _many_ more _dates_.”

She pulls back to look at him and winks, “Only if you can keep up, honey.” She gives him a naughty smile, then looks pointedly in the direction of his trousers.

“Oh,” He steps behind her and presses his hips into her as they stand in the middle of the crowd on the train, “I _can_.”

River bites her lip and presses back into him, resisting the sudden urge to go for round two. She’s always been an exhibitionist, much to the Doctor’s shock and horror but ultimate delight. It may be 27th century America, but public indecency is still a crime here, she knows, and she’s not interested in being locked up today. Well. Not like _that_ anyway.

“Is this what Time Lords do on dates, then?” River asks as the train lurches to a stop; the Doctor steadies her with a hand on her hip.

He lowers his head to her ear, “It’s what I do on dates with _you_. And anyway, this is my first one, so _yes_.” He grabs her hand, “This is us.” He leads her off the train and through the station, up the stairs and onto the street.

She hasn’t been here in ages, but somehow every single part of her _remembers_ , even though it looks nothing like what it used to. She freezes, pulling her hand from his as she stops on the sidewalk, much less crowded in this part of town.

“Where are we going?” She asks; she knows, of course she knows, but she can’t stop the question from leaving her mouth anyway. The dread settles low in her belly as she waits for the answer she knows is coming.

“River,” The Doctor can’t look at her, shutting his eyes tightly, “You know where we’re going. We’re…” He trails off reaching for her hand. She lets him take it, closing her eyes as he runs his thumb gently over the back of her hand.

River hears the words he doesn’t say: _visiting your parents_. She feels like she can’t move, like her feet are rooted to the ground on some dirty sidewalk in the middle of Manhattan, and she’ll have to stay there forever—she hasn’t visited them, not since it happened. She doesn’t like endings, she doesn’t like goodbyes, even if they’re not goodbyes and she learned that from him. She closes her eyes and waits for a breeze that doesn’t come, that will never come.

She opens her eyes, “Why?” She chokes the word out knowing she won’t get an answer; besides, she knows it, anyway.

_Because she is their daughter and they are his Ponds._

The Doctor tugs on her arm, leading her to the end of the block where he stops at a flower stand before leading her across the street and through the wrought iron gates of the cemetery. The gates are old and worn and they do not keep anything in or out, not anymore. She moves wordlessly behind him, a knot of emotion building itself a tidy home in her throat and she wonders how she can still breathe.

The sun is setting, the sky morphing into brilliant hues of purples and oranges with a bright stripe of pink cutting through the center.

The Doctor leads her through rows and rows of tombstones, but she does not see any of them because she cannot open her eyes; she can’t see where she is going and trust herself to still end up there. Finally, she feels him stop and when he gives her hand a gentle squeeze, she opens her eyes and sees him looking directly in front of him.

“Hello, Ponds.” His voice is quiet, solemn. He runs his hand reverently along the tombstone before he turns to look at River; she can see the tears glistening in his eyes, and she feels the sting of them in her own. He taps the tombstone gently, “Still standing after three and a half civil wars.” And River doesn’t have to ask, she knows he’s protected it, she knows why the gravestone that marks the lives of her parents is one of the only ones still standing in a cemetery decimated by time and war and loss.

River turns and surveys the other tombstones in the cemetery; they’re old, cracked and crumbling, faded reminders of an arcane ritual that only exists in small sects on Earth now—burying the dead. The dirt is hard under their feet and grass doesn’t grow here anymore, the soil of the Earth too ravaged to support life except in a few places now.

River feels a wave of sadness wash over her. The bodies of two out of the only three people who have ever loved River Song are beneath her feet and she’s never even said goodbye to this form of them. She knows they’re _not here_ —it’s the curse of knowing so many secrets of the universe: comforts cannot be gleaned from tombstones and thoughts of a better place that doesn’t exist.

River’s better place was those years with her parents, with her Doctor. River’s better place was when she first learned to not shy away from a touch, when she first learned what happiness felt like, when she first learned that love wasn’t a weapon or a tool, it just _was_ , and _she deserved it_.

The Doctor walks away, moving a bit farther down staring at the sky as it paints a sunset and she knows what he’s doing—and despite the fact that she knows her parents have been gone for a very long time, despite the fact that she knows that very little of even their bodies sit beneath her feet now, despite the fact that she knows their bodies have been returned to an Earth that doesn’t deserve them, she crouches down and reaches out to trace her fingers over each of their names because she is still part human. “Hello, Dad,” She whispers, “Mum.”

River has so much to say, so much to tell them, but only two words come: _thank you._ So she whispers them over and over and over again until they sound like a prayer she knew once and has only just remembered after years of forgetting. When she can’t say them anymore, she takes a tiny chip from her pocket and sets it on top of the tombstone, fastening it there. She presses the top firmly, and the hologram flowers spark to life, a beautiful bouquet of TARDIS blue roses, and only then does another word come, one she hates but has to say anyway because it’s been too long without it: “ _Goodbye_.” She stands, her fingers still lingering on the edge of the tombstone.

The Doctor walks up behind her, looks at the digital bouquet sitting atop the Ponds’ marker, “ _River_ ,” His voice is quiet but bemused, “Did you _steal_ those flowers?”

She turns to him and shrugs, “Old habits.” Her eyes are watery, but she doesn’t duck her head. It’s been years since she stopped hiding her tears, her secrets from him.

“I was right there the whole time!” His tone is slightly indignant as his arms flail about, and for a moment she is back in time and she half expects her mother to chime in to tease him about his inability to control his limbs; the thought pleases her, “I didn’t even see you.”

River feels the weight from her hearts loosen, feels it float from her chest and out into the dusky night sky as the sun buries itself for the evening behind the hills, it’s beautiful goodbye casting colors over everything it touches with its dwindling light.

She grins at the Doctor, at this man who loved her parents as much as she did, in a different way, “I’m _very good_.”

“Yes,” the Doctor nods, “You are.”

He places his holographic flowers next to hers then sits and tugs at her wrist until she joins him, sitting cross-legged with her bare knee brushing against his through his trousers; they lean their backs against the tombstone as they look out over the cemetery bathed in a mixture of beautiful colors. The Earth is damaged, overwrought and dying now, only a century or two left at best—but the sunsets here have never been so beautiful.

Color streaks the sky, and the Doctor puts his arm around River, his hand gripping her bicep and pulling her close to him. She leans her head on his shoulder and smiles as the colors bloom in front of her. As darkness finally falls, she sees little glowing lights begin to pop up in the distance. They grow closer and closer, multiplying the darker it gets until there are thousands of them dancing in short bursts here and there, sparking and fading in a random almost-pattern that mesmerizes.

River gasps, then turns to look at the Doctor, “ _Fireflies_ ,” She breathes, and she is awestruck as the fireflies appear and dart in erratic paths around them, so close she could reach out and touch them.

The Doctor nods, “It’s one of the reasons it had to be tonight, our date. Never a sight like this again.” He’s speaking of the fireflies, she knows, but he’s looking straight at her as the fireflies dance around her head.

One firefly lands on River’s knee, it’s fluorescent belly glowing brightly. The Doctor looks down at it delightedly and smiles, leaning towards it as it perches on her knee, “Why, _yes,_ she _does_ have very big hair.” He laughs and speaks gently to the firefly.

River rolls her eyes, watching him, “Oh, shut up.” But she chuckles.

“Can’t. Little guy wants to talk, and no one else speaks firefly anymore. Only me, I’m afraid.” He looks at the firefly, still perched on her knee and preening a bit, “Yes, she _is_ very pretty.” He looks at it sternly, raising a finger, “Back off.”

River snorts, shaking her head as she turns to look out at the distance. Low in the cemetery sits a blanket of fireflies, their glow lighting up the remnants of tombstones and earth below as they flit back and forth twinkling in little bursts of energy—so bright, but not for long. River’s never seen anything like it before, and the sight takes her breath away.

“It’s beautiful.” She whispers, her eyes fixed to the scene before her.

“Yes,” The Doctor agrees, turning to look at her as she watches, “It is.”

River glances at him out of the corner of her eye, and smiles—no one has ever looked at her like he’s looking at her now and no one ever will again except him, she knows. It is enough.

The Doctor suddenly lets out a quiet gasp of shock, his attention drawn back to the firefly. “She is _not_ out of my league, thank you very much.”

River chuckles, shaking her head in a mix of fondness and mild exasperation, “Sweetie.”

He reaches his hand out to her knee and the firefly, glowing dimly, crawls onto the back of his hand. He brings his hand to his face and peers at the firefly, “These little buggers almost died out. Could only find a few here in the city during America’s… Orange period.”

River snorts, “And you thought Nixon was bad.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, “Had to really rein myself in to not go back and fix that one.” He smiles at the firefly, “Off you go, now.” The firefly takes flight, glowing as it flies away from them into the distance. They watch him go until he is just another speck amongst thousands of glowing fireflies.

River leans her head back against the tombstone and presses her eyes shut; she inhales deeply, and though the cemetery doesn’t smell like grief anymore, she can still taste her own.

Her voice is quiet, “Did you blame me?” She keeps her eyes shut because she can’t look at him and ask.

She hears him inhale quickly, feels him turn his body to face hers, “No.” He reaches out and takes her hand, “River, _no_.” His voice is emphatic, and she finally gathers her courage and opens her eyes to see him.

The Doctor’s eyes are wide, and his expression is pained; she hates seeing him like this, but she had to ask, she had to know. His eyes don’t leave hers, they implore her to believe him. _The Doctor lies_ , they say, _but not this time_.

River nods once, blinking against the tears that have suddenly formed in her eyes, “I blamed myself for such a long time.”

The Doctor looks guilt-stricken at her words, and he closes his eyes before opening them again, “I wish you’d said.” His hands against hers are warm, and he leans closer to her, “They were Amy and Rory, River. They would have always made that choice. When I could see past my grief, I knew that.” He lets go of her hands and takes her face between his hands, his palms flat against her cheeks, “You _know_ that.”

River looks at him carefully, “I know.” She whispers; she brings her right hand up to cover his; he hasn’t said anything, he won’t say anything, because this is her moment of release, it is _her_ forgiveness, and what right does he have? But she _knows._ She _knows this man_ , so she lets her thumb caress the skin of his hand as she speaks, her words low and quiet and true: “It’s not your fault either.”

The Doctor’s gaze drops immediately, and he moves to drop his hands and the right one falls into his lap, but River keeps his left one pressed against her right cheek, holding it firmly when he tries to pull away.

“No,” She insists, dropping her head down a bit to catch his eyes. When he finally looks at her, she sees only the grief he carries for this moment, “It’s _not_ , Doctor. They were Amy and Rory,” She smiles, repeating his own words back to him as her eyes water, “And they would have always made that choice—they would always have chosen _you_.”

River leans forward and presses a tender kiss to his lips, and his arms wrap around her, pulling her into an embrace. She rests her chin on his shoulder, the thick night air wrapping itself around them.

“ _We_ would have chosen _you_ ,” She says it so quietly that he nearly doesn’t hear her—but when he does, he tightens his arms around her and she sighs, watching as the fireflies still dance around them.

After a moment, River and the Doctor settle back against the tombstone, watching the fireflies hover like a blanket on the ground below.

The Doctor clears his throat, and his voice is hoarse, the quietest she’s ever heard it: “Would you change anything?” He doesn’t look at her; he keeps his eyes trained in front of him instead.

He’s been asking her this at the end of their time together for years now. The first time he asked it, she’d laughed: ‘ _are you offering_?’ He’d grown quiet and still, and a heavy look had settled in his eyes: ‘ _Yes_.’ Her hearts had clenched, and _spoilers be damned_ , she knew he was giving her a way out of something. A way out of him, as if that was something she would ever want, she would ever take.

River doesn’t turn to look at him, she doesn’t hesitate and she answers now as she answered then, as she will answer every time he asks: “Not a _single thing_ , my love.”

The Doctor accepts her answer, and as the fireflies grow tired, River and the Doctor stand to leave; the Doctor helps her up, pulling on her hand and guiding her by the elbow. He slips his hand into hers, interlocking their fingers when she is upright. River runs her free hand reverently over the tombstone of her parents one more time, her hand reaching into the holographic bouquet, the TARDIS blue flowers taking shape over her hand so it looks as though they are blooming on her skin. “ _Goodbye_ ,” She whispers again, and with the Doctor’s thumb grazing over the back of her palm and with him looking at her tenderly, the word doesn’t stick in her throat.

And though she knows it’s a figment of her imagination, though she knows it’s just this side of impossible, she swears she feels a light breeze move through her hair and for a second it feels like her parents are with her—for a second it feels like they never left, like they have been watching her all along, like the fixed point never happened and if it did, it was a different one; it feels like the best dream she's never had, at once painful and good.

The best surprises, River thinks now, are both.

As the Doctor and River walk back to the TARDIS hand in hand, the warm Manhattan night stuffy and thick, the lights from the skyscrapers twinkle against the backdrop of a hazy half-moon. The Doctor walks slowly with her, silence stretching between them like an old friend. When they reach the TARDIS door, he turns to look at her, then kisses her gently before pulling back.

“River, I…” He trails off, his eyes searching hers as his hand cups her face.

River brings her hand up to cover his, “Sweetie, _I know_.”

The Doctor nods once, then smiles that goofy smile she’s always loved so well on this face. His face is so open to her now, and it is still a revelation every time—like her favorite book she has read so many times but which still somehow manages to surprise her when she needs it the most.

As the Doctor opens the door for her, guiding her through it, River smiles.

Her _better place_ is with him.


End file.
